Inside stood two men, one a little round-shouldered, black-coated fellow with a dead-white face and hands that twisted nervously; the other tall, burly, crimson-faced, fierce-moustached, clad in police blue with the three stripes of a sergeant on his arm.
It was the policeman’s voice that had attracted Anthony’s attention. Now it was raised again, more loudly than before.
‘You knows a blasted sight more o’ this crime than you says,’ it roared.
The other quivered, lifted a shaking hand to his mouth, and cast a hunted look round the room. He seemed, thought Anthony, remarkably like a ferret.
‘I don’t sergeant. Re-really I d-don’t,’ he stammered.
The sergeant thrust his great face down into that of his victim. ‘I don’t believe you this mornin’ any more’n I did last night,’ he bellowed. ‘Now, Belford, me lad, you confess! If you ’olds out against Jack ’Iggins you’ll be sorry.’
Anthony leaned his arms on the window-sill and thrust head and shoulders into the room.
‘Now, sergeant,’ he said, ‘this sort of thing’ll never do, you know.’
The effect of his intrusion tickled pleasantly his sense of the dramatic. Law and Order recovered first, advanced, big with rage, to the window and demanded what was the meaning of the unprintable intrusion.
‘Why,’ said Anthony, ‘shall we call it a wish to study at close quarters the methods of the County Constabulary.’
‘Who the —ing ’ell are you?’ The face of Sergeant Higgins was black with wrath.
‘I,’ said Anthony, ‘am Hawkshaw, the detective!’
Before another roar could break from outraged officialdom, the door of the room opened. A thick-set, middle-aged man of a grocerish air inquired briskly what was the trouble here.
Sergeant Higgins became on the instant a meek subordinate. ‘I—I didn’t know you were—were about, sir.’ He stood stiff at attention. ‘Just questioning of a few witnesses, I was, sir. This er—gentleman’—he nodded in the direction of Anthony—‘just pushed his ’ead—’
But Superintendent Boyd of the C.I.D. was shaking the interloper by the hand. He had recognised the head and shoulders as those of Colonel Gethryn. In 1917 he had been ‘lent’ to Colonel Gethryn in connection with a great and secret ‘round-up’ in and about London. For Colonel Gethryn Superintendent Boyd had liking and a deep respect.
‘Well, well, sir,’ he said, beaming. ‘Fancy seeing you. They didn’t tell me you were staying here.’
‘I’m not,’ Anthony said. Then added, seeing the look of bewilderment: ‘I don’t quite know what I am, Boyd. You may have to turn me away. I think I’d better see Miss Hoode before I commit myself any further.’
He swung his long legs into the room, patted the doubtful Boyd on the shoulder, sauntered to the door, opened it and passed through. Turning to his right, he collided sharply with another man, a person of between forty and fifty, dressed tastefully in light grey; broad-shouldered, virile, with a kindly face marked with lines of fatigue and mental stress. Anthony recoiled from the shock of the collision. The other stared.
‘Good God!’ he exclaimed.
‘You exaggerate, Sir Arthur,’ said Anthony.
Sir Arthur Digby-Coates recovered himself. ‘The most amazing coincidence that ever happened, Gethryn,’ he said. ‘I was just thinking of you.’
‘Really?’ Anthony was surprised.
‘Yes, yes. I suppose you’ve heard? You must have. Poor Hoode!’
‘Of course. That’s why I’m here.’
‘But I thought you’d left—’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Anthony, ‘I’ve left the Service. Quite a time ago. I’m here because—look here, this’ll sound rot if I try to explain in a hurry. Can we go and sit somewhere where we can talk?’
‘Certainly, my boy, certainly. I’m very glad indeed to see you, Gethryn. Very glad. This is a terrible, and awful affair—and, well, I think we could do with your help. You see, I feel responsible for seeing that everything’s done that can be. It may seem strange to you, Gethryn, the way I’m taking charge of this; but John and I were—well ever since we were children we’ve been more like brothers than most real ones. I don’t think a week’s passed, except once or twice, that we haven’t seen— This way: we can talk better in my room. I’ve got a sitting-room of my own here, you know. Dear old John—’
III
It was three-quarters of an hour before Anthony descended the stairs; but in that time much had been decided and arranged. So much, in fact, that Anthony marvelled at his luck—a form of mental exercise unusual in him. He was always inclined to take the gifts of the gods as his due.
But this was different. Everything was being made so easy for him. First, here was dear, stolid old Boyd in charge of the case. Next, there was Sir Arthur. As yet they were the merest acquaintances, but the knight had, he knew, for some time time been aware of and impressed by the war record of A. R. Gethryn, and had welcomed him to the stricken household. Through Sir Arthur, Miss Hoode—whom Anthony had not seen yet—had been persuaded to accept Anthony, despite his present aura of journalism.
Oh, most undoubtedly, everything was going very well! Now, thought Anthony, for the murderer. This, in spite of its painful side, was all vastly entertaining. Who killed Cock Robin Hoode?
Anthony felt more content than for the last year. It appeared that, after all, there might be interest in life.
In the hall he found Boyd; with him Poole, the butler—a lean, shaking old man—and a burly fellow whom Anthony knew for another of Scotland Yard’s Big Four.
Boyd came to meet him. The burly one picked up his hat and sought the front door. The butler vanished.
‘I wish you’d tell me, colonel,’ Boyd asked, ‘exactly where you come in on this business?’
Anthony smiled. ‘It’s no use, Boyd. I’m not the murderer. But lend me your ears and I’ll explain my presence.’
As the explanation ended, Boyd’s heavy face broke into a smile. He showed none of the chagrin commonly attributed to police detectives when faced with the amateur who is to prove them fools at every turn.
‘There’s no one I’d rather have with me, colonel,’ he said. ‘Of course, it’s all very unofficial—’
‘That’s all right, Boyd. Before I left town I rang up Mr Lucas. He gave me his blessing, and told me to carry on provided I was accepted by the family.’
Boyd looked relieved. ‘That makes everything quite easy, then. I don’t mind telling you that this is a regular puzzler, Colonel Gethryn.’
‘So I have gathered,’ Anthony said. ‘By the way, Boyd, do drop that “Colonel”, there’s a good Inspector. If you love me, call me mister, call me mister, Boydie dear.’
Boyd laughed. He found Anthony refreshingly unofficial. ‘Very well, sir. Now, if we may, let’s get down to business. I suppose you’ve heard roughly what happened?’
‘Yes’
‘Much detail?’
‘A wealth. None germane.’
Boyd was pleased. He knew this laconic mood of Anthony’s; it meant business. He was pleased because at present he felt himself out of his depth in the case. He produced from his breast-pocket a notebook.
‘Here are some notes I’ve made, sir,’ he said. ‘You won’t be able to read ’em, so let me give you an edited version.’
‘Do. But let’s sit down first.’
They did so, on a small couch before the great fireplace.
Boyd began his tale. ‘I’ve questioned everyone in the house except Miss Hoode,’ he said. ‘I’ll tackle her when she’s better, probably this afternoon. But beyond the fact that she was the first one to see the body, I don’t think she’ll be much use. Now for the facts. After supp—dinner, that is, last night, Mr Hoode, Miss Hoode, Mrs Mainwaring and Sir Arthur Digby-Coates played bridge in the drawing-room. They finished the meal at eight-thirty, began the cards at nine and finished the game at about ten. Miss Hoode then said good-night and went to her bedroom; so did the other lady. Sir Art
hur went to his own sitting-room to work, and the deceased retired to his study for the same purpose.’
‘No originality!’ said Anthony plaintively. ‘It’s all exactly the same. Ever read detective stories, Boyd? They’re always killed in their studies. Always! Ever notice that?’
Boyd—perhaps a little shocked by the apparent levity—only shook his head. He went on: ‘That’s the study door over there, sir, the only door on the right side of the hall, you see. That little room just opposite to it—the one you climbed into this morning—is a sort of den for that old boy Poole, the butler. Poole says that from nine-forty-five until the murder was discovered he sat in there, reading and thinking. And he had the door open all the time. And he was facing the door. And he swears that no one entered the study by the door during the whole of that time.’
‘Mr Poole is most convenient,’ murmured Anthony. He was lying back, his legs stretched out before him.
Boyd looked at him curiously. But the thin face was in shadow, and the greenish eyes were veiled by their lids. A silence fell.
Anthony broke it. ‘Going to arrest Poole just yet?’ he asked.
Boyd smiled. ‘No, sir. I suppose you’re thinking Poole knows too much. Got his story too pat, so to speak.’
‘Something of the sort. Never mind, though. On with the tale, my Boyd.’
‘No, Poole’s not my man. By all accounts he was devoted to his master. That’s one thing. Another is that his right arm’s practically useless with rheumatism and that he’s infirm—with an absolute minimum of physical strength, so to speak. That proves he’s not the man, even if other things were against him, which they’re not. You’ll know why when I take you into that room there, sir.’ The detective nodded his head in the direction of the study door.
‘Well,’ he continued, ‘taking Poole, for the present at any rate, as a reliable witness, we know that the murderer didn’t enter by the door. The chimney’s impossible because it’s too small and the register’s down; so he must have got in through the window.’
‘Which of how many?’ Anthony asked, still in that sleepy tone.
‘The one farthest from the door and facing the garden, sir. The room’s got windows on all three sides—three on the garden side, one in the end wall, and two facing the drive; but only one of ’em—the one I said—was open.’
Anthony opened his eyes. ‘But how sultry!’ he complained.
‘I know, sir. That’s what I thought. And in this hot weather and all. But there’s an explanation. The deceased always had them—those windows—shut all day in the hot weather, and the blinds down. He knew a thing or two, you see. But he always used to open ’em himself at night, when he went in there to work. I suppose last night he must ’ave been in a great hurry or something, and only opened one of ’em.’ He looked across at Anthony for approval of his reasoning, then continued: ‘But the queer thing is, sir, that that open window shows no traces of anything—no scratches, no marks, no nothing. Nor does the flower-beds under it either.’
‘Any fingerprints anywhere on anything?’ said Anthony.
‘None anywhere in the room but the deceased’s—except on one thing. I’ve sent that up to the Yard—Jardine’s taken it—for the experts to photograph. I’ll have prints sometime this afternoon I should think.’ Boyd’s tone was mysterious.
Anthony looked at him. ‘Out with it, Boyd. You’re like a boy with a surprise for daddy.’
‘As a matter of fact, sir,’ Boyd laughed, rather shamefacedly, ‘it’s the modus operandi, so to speak.’
‘So you’ve found the ber-loodstained weapon. Boyd, I congratulate you. What was it? And whose are the fingerprints?’
‘The weapon used, sir, was a large wood-rasp, and a very nasty weapon it must have made. As for the fingerprints, I don’t know yet. And it’s my firm belief we shan’t be much wiser when we’ve got the enlargements—not even if we were to compare ’em with all the prints of all the fingers for miles round. I don’t know what it is, sir, but this case has got a nasty, puzzling sort of feel about it, so to speak.’
‘A wood-rasp, eh?’ mused Anthony. ‘Not very enlightening. Doesn’t belong to the house, I suppose?’
‘As far as I can find out, sir, most certainly not.’ Boyd’s tone was gloomy.
‘H’mm! Well, let us advance. We’ve absolved the aged Poole; but what about the rest of the household?’ Anthony spread out his long fingers and ticked off each name as he spoke. ‘Miss Hoode, Mrs Mainwaring, her maid Duboise, Sir Arthur, Elsie Syme, Mabel Smith, Maggie—no, Martha Forrest, Lily Ingram, Annie Holt, Belford, Harry Wright. Any of them do? The horticultural Mr Diggle’s in hospital and therefore out of it, I suppose.’
Boyd stared amazement. ‘Good Lord, sir!’ he exclaimed, ‘you’ve got ’em off pat enough. Have you been talking to them?’
‘Preserve absolute calm, Boyd; I have not been talking to them. I got their dreadful names from an outsider. Anyhow, what about them?’
Boyd shook his head. ‘Nothing, sir.’
‘All got confused but trustworthy alibis? That it?’
‘Yes, sir, more or less; some of the alibis are clear as glass. To tell you the truth, I don’t suspect anyone in the house. Some of the servants have got “confused alibis” as you call it, but they’re all obviously all right. That’s the servants; it’s the same only more so with the others. Take the secretary, Mr Deacon; he was up there in his room the whole time. There’s one, p’r’aps two witnesses to prove it. The same with Miss Hoode. And the other lady; to be sure she’s got no witnesses, but that murder wasn’t her job, nor any woman’s. Take Sir Arthur, it’s the same thing again. Even if there was anything suspicious—which there wasn’t—about his relations with the deceased, you can’t suspect a man who was, to the actual knowledge of five or six witnesses who saw him, sitting upstairs in his room during the only possible time when the murder can have been done.
‘No, sir!’ Boyd shook his head with vigour. ‘It’s no good looking in the house. Take it from me.’
‘I will, Boyd; for the present anyhow.’ Anthony rose and stretched himself. ‘Can I see the study?’
Boyd jumped up with alacrity. ‘You can, sir. We’ve been in there a lot, taking photos, et cetera; but it’s untouched—just as it was when they found the body.’
CHAPTER IV
THE STUDY
ONCE across the threshold of the dead minister’s study, Anthony experienced a change of feeling, of mental attitude. Until now he had looked at the whole business in his usual detached and semi-satirical way; the reasons for his presence at Abbotshall had been two only—affection for Spencer Hastings and desire to satisfy that insistent craving for some definite and difficult task to perform. He had even felt, at intervals throughout the morning, a wish to laugh.
But, now, fairly in the room, this aloofness failed him. It was not that he felt any sudden surge of personal regret. It was rather that, for him at least, despite the sunlight which blazed incongruously in every corner, some cold, dark beastliness brooded everywhere.
The big room was gay with chintz and as yet unfaded flowers of the day before; the solid furniture was of some beauty—in fact, a charming room. Yet Anthony shivered even before he had seen the thing lying grotesque upon the hearth. When he did see it, somehow the sight shook him out of the nightmare of dark fancy. He stepped forward to look more closely.
Came the sound of a commotion from the hall. With a muttered excuse, Boyd went quickly from the room. Anthony knelt to examine the body.
It sprawled upon the hearth-rugs, legs towards the window in the opposite wall. The red-tiled edge of the open grate forced up the neck. The almost hairless head was dreadfully battered; crossed and re-crossed by five or six gaping gashes, each nearly half an inch wide and an inch or so deep. Of the scalp little remained but islands and peninsulas of skin and bone streaked with the dark brown of dried blood, among it ribands of grey film where the brain had oozed from the wounds.
The body was untouched,
though the clothes were rumpled and twisted. The right arm was outstretched, the rigid fingers of the hand resting among the pots of fern which filled the fireplace. The left arm was doubled under the body.
Anthony, having gazed his fill, rose to his feet. As he did so, Boyd re-entered. He looked flushed and not a little annoyed.
Anthony turned to him, raising his eyebrows.
‘Only a bit more trouble with some of these newspaper fellows, sir. But thank the Lord, I’ve got rid of ’em now. Told ’em I’d give ’em a statement tonight. What they’d say if they knew you were here—and why—God knows. There’ll be a row after the case is over, but there you are. Miss Hoode’s agreeable to you, and I don’t blame her, but she won’t hear of any of the others being let in. I don’t blame her for that either.’ He nodded towards the body. ‘What d’you make of it, sir?’
‘Shocking messy kill,’ Anthony said.
‘You’re right, sir. But what about—things in general, so to speak?’
Anthony looked round the room. It bore traces of disturbance. Two light chairs had been overturned. Books and papers from the desk strewed the floor. The grandfather clock, which should have stood sentinel on the left of the door as one entered it, had fallen, though not completely. It lay face-downwards at an angle of some forty-five degrees with the floor, the upper half of its casing supported by the back of a large sofa.
‘Struggle?’ said Anthony.
‘Yes,’ said Boyd.
‘Queer struggle,’ said Anthony. He sauntered off on a tour of the room.
Boyd watched him curiously as he halted before the sofa, dropped on one knee, and peered up at the face of the reclining clock.
He looked up at Boyd. ‘Stopped at ten-forty-five. That make the murder fit in with the times the people in the house have told you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘When are you going to have the room tidied?’
‘Any time now. We’ve got the photos.’
‘Right.’ Anthony got to his feet. ‘Let us, Boyd, unite our strength and put grand-dad on his feet.’
The Rasp Page 3